


Uncharted Territory

by edna_blackadder



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: Older, but only nominally wiser, Illya and Napoleon are slowly adjusting to their new professional roles in Section One and what those will mean for their relationship.  And somehow, they keep coming back to Spain.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparky955](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/gifts).



> Just in case it wasn't obvious, I've opted not to take the Return movie as canon. I've also chosen to ignore the supposed 40 rule, since it never made much sense to me and the spinoff rendered that episode AU anyway. So, this was written for Down the Chimney Affair 2016, for sparky955's prompts of a second honeymoon, snow, and snuggling. I hope you enjoy!

_Madrid, December 1975_

It was hard to get into the Christmas spirit when everything felt so uncertain, but uncertainty was anathema to Napoleon. Illya had witnessed enough incidents of his partner's famously unbelievable luck to where he could almost begin to understand that, but here, he couldn't help feeling uneasy. And he'd just about had it with Napoleon absently humming the music from that doll commercial as they stood in line for lottery tickets.

“Just think, Illya,” said Napoleon, gesturing around them. “One hundred sixty-three years. Not even the Civil War could stop this lottery. An entire dictatorship has come and gone, yet this remains.”

Illya shook his head. “I wouldn't be so sure about that,” he said, as quietly as possible.

“Ask Cristiana,” said Napoleon. “She'll tell you a nice little story about how her father found out he'd won ten thousand _pesetas_ on the field of battle.” He was still smiling as though this were just any other holiday in a European capital, as though they hadn't spent a tense afternoon hoping against hope that their two newest Section Two agents would be able to stop the assassination and wondering, though neither dared to voice as much, whether they themselves had caused Mr. Waverly half as much anxiety in the past.

“I meant about the dictatorship having gone,” said Illya in an undertone. Franco hadn't exactly encouraged Spaniards to learn English, but one could never be too careful.

“Don't tell me you've been watching _Saturday Night Live_ ,” said Napoleon, his eyes now even lighter with amusement.

“That might have been a better use of my time,” Illya grumbled. He might have found it easier to trust that Boyd and Miss Wu would succeed—as they had, after all, always done in their work for Section Three—if he hadn't felt so redundant, left with nothing to do but overthink. Fieldwork was now the province of their successors, and liasing with the King was something Napoleon could easily have done without him. But for the last eleven years, with very few exceptions, Illya went where Napoleon went, now including Section One.

Napoleon sighed, and even though Illya was glad to see that he finally appeared to be taking the situation seriously, he still felt a pang of guilt over wiping that contented smile off of his partner's face. “Well, if this is going to turn into a Conversation with a capital C, I suppose we'd better get out of the wind. Now I was going to promise to take you somewhere nice if I won something, but you'll have to content yourself with _churros y chocolate_.”

And to Illya's surprise, Napoleon stepped out of line and began to walk with purpose across the Puerta del Sol, towards one of the side streets that fed into it. Illya quickly followed, and Napoleon's hand brushed against his as he drew level, in a way he knew had not been accidental. In spite of himself, Illya smiled and, after a moment or two, returned the gesture. It was one of the things they'd learned to do in the years since they'd become partners in every sense. They couldn't hold hands or link arms openly, but Napoleon was hardly going to let that prevent him from showing his lover affection when he wished. These casual, deniable touches could hold the same meaning, as long as they agreed on the definition.

After a small maze of side streets, each one seemingly narrower than the last, Napoleon finally seemed to have found the cafe he was looking for. He paused in front of a doorway and held out a hand to stop Illya, daring to squeeze his arm slightly in the dim light. Illya caught his eye and smiled, and they walked in together. As promised, Napoleon ordered them _churros y chocolate_ , and then they retreated to a table in the corner.

“Another recommendation from Cristiana?” Illya asked as they sat down.

“Er, no, actually,” said Napoleon. Illya detected the faintest hint of embarrassment in his cheeks, but only because he'd known him so long and so intimately. “As it happens, I knew the former owner.”

Illya smiled. “In the Biblical sense, I suppose.”

“Quite,” said Napoleon, still hardly as abashed as he ought to have looked. “He emigrated to Paris in 1962 and may have become entangled in an assignment of mine. He sold this cafe to his cousin and was firmly resolved against ever coming back to Spain. Of course, I suppose that could change now.” He paused, watching Illya's face. “Which I believe you were saying you doubted.”

Illya sighed. “Napoleon, the man we saved today is the dictator's own handpicked successor, whose public statements have all but universally indicated that he will be same leader with a different title, yet you seem to truly believe he will bring change. Did he tell you that while I was relegated to largely useless surveillance?”

“Ah,” said Napoleon uncomfortably. “He did, and he didn't. That's to say, he didn't have to.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We played chess. And what do you mean, useless surveillance?”

In spite of himself, Illya's mouth opened slightly. “You played chess with the King of Spain.”

Napoleon nodded. “I did. His idea, I should add, and it told me everything I needed to know about him. Juan Carlos de Borbón is a man very well-accustomed to playing a long game.”

“A long game,” Illya repeated. “As in, flattering a dictator in public and in private for years in the hope of being given his country, his true plans for which differ greatly from what the dictator had in mind.”

“Precisely. Now don't think I didn't notice that you didn't answer my question.”

Illya shook his head. “'Useless' was perhaps an overstatement, but I don't believe my efforts achieved anything that Boyd and Miss Wu could not have done themselves. As Number One Section One, your presence was arguably necessary to properly extend the hand of friendship to a very new leader coming into his power under historic circumstances, but I cannot see where two Section One agents were really needed here. People already wonder why you insisted on my elevation alongside you, when Waverly never had a partner, nor gave any indication of needing or wanting one.”

Napoleon drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, taking a breath before replying. “Perhaps you're right. We may have to rethink the way we work together. You might, indeed, have been more useful back at HQ. But as I've made the terrible mistake of taking you with me, I'm now determined to make the most of it.” With that, he cast a furtive glance around the café to make sure that its present owner's attention was diverted, and then he brushed his leg against Illya's under the table. “Very, very determined,” he added, before closing his hand around Illya's, which was itself closed around his warm cup of chocolate.

Illya's breath hitched, his resolve weakening. “Don't you try to distract me. This is important.”

“And I'm taking it seriously,” Napoleon replied, bringing their legs together again. “We're going to have to have a long talk about how our professional roles will change, and we will, but that can wait. For now, we're not due back until tomorrow evening, and I believe the mission report is Boyd and Miss Wu's sole responsibility. We're entitled to a brief vacation. Not least because by the looks of it, we may not be able to have quite as much time together.”

Napoleon paused for a moment, taking in Illya's still deliberately impassive face. Gradually, he withdrew his leg and his hand. “I really don't mean to dismiss your concern,” he said quietly. “But that's a conversation we're both going to have to think about first. Carefully consider all of what Waverly's job really entailed and what we think our respective jobs ought to. This is uncharted territory in many ways. We can discuss it on the plane.”

Illya nodded, and allowed himself to be led away.

*

“Look,” Napoleon whispered later, spooned around Illya in a messy tangle of sheets. He dropped a kiss on his partner's shoulder. “I know what this is really about, the same thing it always is. Seven years on and that Russian fatalist in you still thinks that one day I'm going to realize this is insanity. That being with you presents all sorts of complications and couldn't possibly be worth it. So, to reiterate”—and he kissed Illya's shoulder again, slightly closer to his neck—“it is”—and another kiss, closer still—“you are”—and now his mouth had reached Illya's neck—“and I couldn't imagine life without you, in the office or out of it.” He concluded by gently biting at what he knew, from years of practice, to be a particularly sensitive spot, and Illya shuddered with pleasure.

If they had been fully dressed and, really, anywhere but in bed with each other, Napoleon would never have dared to say it, and Illya certainly wouldn't have let it pass without argument. But it was true and they both knew it. There were the obvious issues, of course, but since retiring they'd come to realize that things like societal prejudice and laws against homosexuality were the least of their problems. In middle age a far less abstract concern presented itself in clear light: Illya couldn't retire, not if he wanted to be with Napoleon while remaining a loyal Soviet citizen. Upon ending his career with UNCLE, he'd be expected to return home. Not to do so would cause an international incident, not to mention cross a personal line that, citizen of the world though he was, he simply couldn't.

It was just unfortunate that going home and leaving Napoleon behind would break his heart irreparably. He'd waited too long for this, spent too many years convinced that Napoleon loved women and only women, and that he'd gone and done the one thing he must not do and doomed himself to unrequited misery.

Seven years on, he still couldn't quite believe how thoroughly, wonderfully wrong he had been on that point. It was only natural that he'd worry it had all been a fleeting moment of insanity on Napoleon's part, and that he would be brutally awakened from his dream.

Napoleon was tracing circles over his chest now, running his fingers through the thatch of blond hair there. “Tell you what,” he whispered. “If I can't take you everywhere I go as an agent anymore, we're going to have to plan a real vacation. A proper honeymoon, if you will.”

“I'll hold you to that,” said Illya sleepily, but he smiled and closed his fingers around Napoleon's.

 

_New York, November, 1978_

Illya had held Napoleon to it, but even after what seemed to both to be an equitable division of labor and one that made the maximum use of their respective talents, they had somehow still managed to underestimate just how all-consuming being the heads of Section One actually was.

On the rare occasion that they could get extensive time off, it was never together. And even if the one who was off opted to stay in New York and simply occupy the other's apartment for a week, the one who was stuck working would be too exhausted, under the strain of an increased workload, to do much beyond collapsing into bed, losing himself in the other's kisses and caresses.

Then there was the question of where they would go. There were very few places in the world that they hadn't visited, and even if they counted places they hadn't visited together, the list wasn't much longer. And so in the intervening three years, they had occasionally managed whole weekends alone, but the promise of a genuine vacation together remained frustratingly unfulfilled.

Until Napoleon appeared in their shared office almost three years to the day from his original offer and told Illya to cancel all appointments for the following week. “Why?” Illya asked, suspicious.

“We have to go to Spain. The King was so pleased with our work three years ago that he's specifically requested the same team of UNCLE agents to investigate a threat he's received against the upcoming Constitution referendum.”

“The same team,” Illya mused, “meaning you, Boyd, Miss Wu, and myself. The precise team on which we agreed I wasn't really needed.”

To his surprise, Napoleon had smiled. “Precisely the point. If you had anything truly time-sensitive on your schedule, I'd have indicated to the emissary that you couldn't be spared, but you haven't. It wouldn't do to disappoint His Majesty. And given the source of the invitation, I doubt anyone would find it particularly strange if we were to stay an extra week for all the fiestas.”

Illya smiled in spite of himself. “And the idea of returning to same place where you first made the offer in no way holds any sort of nauseating sentimental appeal for you.”

“Well,” said Napoleon mischievously, “not exactly the same place. I've been doing some thinking.”

 

_Teruel, December 1978_

When it came to teasing a surprise while stubbornly refusing to spoil it, Napoleon was the undisputed master. For a week, Illya had attempted to pry it out of him, to no avail. Napoleon's timing, however, was decidedly less masterful.

Thanks to Boyd, Miss Wu, and a group of Spanish funcionarios with whom they'd aligned themselves, the Constitution referendum on December 6th went off without a hitch. And with the Immaculate Conception celebrations on December 8th, more than a few people saw no need to remain sober on the day in between. After more than one near miss, Illya begged Napoleon to let him drive, which he was ordinarily all too willing to do. But that would mean telling Illya where they were going, an issue on which Napoleon would not budge.

And then, of course, it had started snowing. Which Illya had to admit he appreciated far more once Napoleon had finally got off the highway in a small mountain city. “I asked Miss López from accounting to name a place in her country that she considered unjustly unknown, underappreciated by outsiders. Welcome to Teruel, Spain's City of Love and the first stop on our journey.”

Illya blinked. It wasn't ugly by any means; indeed, its ancient architecture begged for closer study. But he wasn't immediately seeing what, among so many similarly hidden cities in Europe, made it unmissable. “You don't think Miss López, perhaps, suffers from a case of hometown bias?”

To his relief, Napoleon smiled, rather than taking offense. “Miss López is from Madrid, and her pueblo is in the south. She said it's a small but deeply romantic place, and part of that is the story of the Lovers of Teruel, but not all of it.”

Illya nodded absently. “The snow does work to its advantage. Another case of Solo's Luck, I suppose.” He stared out the window as Napoleon carefully wound the car through impossibly narrow streets. When they reached the hotel, he had to admit that the façade was quite a sight. Mudéjar, the receptionist said proudly, like the rest of Teruel. Her name was María José, and she made no secret of her surprise that her guests were an American and a Soviet, staying together no less. As she obsequiously rattled off facts about the building, Illya could practically see the wheels in her head turning as to whether they were spies, whether her beloved little city was about to become the epicenter of international intrigue.

International intrigue, he thought. That's one way of putting it. Perhaps he would come to enjoy Teruel, even having to endure Napoleon briefly turning on the charm as he asked María José for restaurant recommendations. They headed off in the direction of the Plaza del Torico, and Illya suppressed a smile as he threw a glance back over his shoulder and saw her hastily backing away from the window, the glass smudged where her nose had been pressed against it.

Napoleon brushed their hands together as they drew nearer to the Plaza, brightened by snow, street lamps, and elated turolenses passing around bottles in the open air. Illya hated to admit it, but the combined warmth of their happiness and his partner's was infectious. He brushed back, allowing himself a small smile.

As they headed down a side street in search of a restaurant that María José had mentioned, Illya thought he understood why Miss López considered Teruel romantic for reasons other than its local legend, which he assumed he'd be learning more about in the next few days, as María José had already waxed poetic about the Lovers' tomb. As a tiny refuge of civilization deep in the wooded mountains, it was a place where anyone who wasn't a local could lose him or herself, where no one would think to look for a person who didn't want to be found. Against a picturesque background and the sounds of a people in excited tumult, they could be allowed the luxury of seeing and hearing only each other.

Confident that the small group of young people clustered under the light were focused entirely on their beers, Illya dared to momentarily squeeze Napoleon's hand, smiling as he felt his partner's pulse jump at the unexpected contact.

“Thank you for taking me here,” he whispered. “We might be able to see all the sights within a day or two, but I daresay you'll find a way to fill the rest of the time.”

“Well,” said Napoleon, “I actually only intended to spend a few days here, after which we'd go on to Valencia and take a ferry to Palma de Mallorca from there. I, er, wasn't counting on the snow. I'm not sure when or if we'll be able to get back on the roads, and even if we do, will you be offended by the sight of snow-covered palm trees?”

Illya smiled. “Hardly, and especially not on a trip intended to be different from our usual travels.”

Napoleon smiled back. “It would certainly be a unique memory.”

“Which I believe was your plan all along,” said Illya, suppressing a laugh. “But really, Napoleon, you could have taken me almost anywhere remotely interesting or peaceful, not even necessarily both, and I would have been satisfied. As amusing as it was to see you in competition with yourself, it was hardly necessary.”

Illya caught sight of Napoleon's face as they passed under a street light, and saw to his surprise that he was blushing. “Perhaps not,” he said with a sort of sigh. “I suppose I'm incorrigible. But really, would you have me any other way?”

Illya smiled. “There is no right answer to that question,” he whispered. “Let's just say I'll make do.”

 

_New York, July 2005_

Thirty years had brought considerable change, up to and including the name and composition of the country Illya represented, but had still not resolved their fundamental problem. In their eighties, they had to continue working, even as they watched their protegés walk off into the sunset. Miss Wu had recently announced her plans to retire from Section One by the end of the year, to the shock of no one, as her partner had already been gone the last two years in one of the sadder departures they had witnessed. Napoleon had taken it particularly hard, burning with anger at the idea that something so banal as cancer might prevent one of his younger agents from ever living to his age. Boyd had managed to fight his disease into remission, but Illya knew that Napoleon still constantly worried about him, as a parent might fear for his child.

Neither of them had had any real power for years, but even those twenty-year-olds who couldn't remember the USSR, let alone Illya and Napoleon's still-unrivalled fieldwork treated them with unquestioned reverence. They might be little more than figureheads, but Illya supposed there were worse things to be.

“Have you heard the news?” Napoleon asked, startling him out of his reverie.

“Which news?” Illya asked. They may no longer be the first, last, and only audience of relevance, but they still heard more news in a single day than some people absorbed in years.

“Out of Spain,” said Napoleon. “They've, ah, they've legalized same-sex marriage there.”

That got Illya's attention. He'd heard that it was under consideration, of course, but the look in Napoleon's eyes suggested that—

“It wouldn't be recognized here,” Napoleon said in a rush, “or in Russia, obviously, but—if you wanted to—I just thought it might be fitting,” he finished, looking more than a little abashed.

Illya smiled. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, Napoleon, I'll marry you in Spain, under one condition.”

“Name it,” said Napoleon breathlessly, and Illya was overcome with wonder at his genuine relief, as if there had ever been any question as to how he might respond.

“That for our second honeymoon, we go to Galicia,” said Illya, grinning. “I've been told it's unmissable.”

“Absolutely,” said Napoleon. He was quite plainly far too overjoyed to begin to care what he'd agreed to. Illya reached across the desk to take his partner's hand, certain that his own face, too, was about to explode with warmth and excitement.

Even in the years since they'd gotten together, he'd never have dared to dream of this moment. Not wanting to embarrass himself with tears, he reached into his desk for a bottle of wine and two glasses that he absolutely wasn't allowed to have, and that absolutely no one would dare to reprimand him for. He uncorked the bottle carefully and poured two glasses. “To us,” he whispered. “And, I suppose, to Spain.”

“To us and Spain,” Napoleon repeated, and they drank in pure contentment.


End file.
